


Accentuated

by Colourful_skies



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baz is not skilled at flirting, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2020 (Simon Snow), Crack, DAY 16 - Meme/Crack, Light Swearing, M/M, One Shot, Referenced Language Discrimination, Unexpected Pep Talk, welsh accent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28003329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colourful_skies/pseuds/Colourful_skies
Summary: Simon’s accent doesn’t suit a proper Chosen One. That’s what his guardian says, anyway. His plans to change himself are complicated by (who else?) Baz Pitch, aspiring speech language pathologist.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Accentuated

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if this counts properly as crack, but it popped into my mind! Baz’s attempted linguistics flirting definitely feels crack-ish to me. 
> 
> As usual, I have interest but not actual experience in the characters’ careers (in this case, speech language pathology). I also opted out of writing a Welsh accent, because that seemed like it would go poorly, but hopefully you get the idea.
> 
> Cheers!

My shift is nearly finished: one appointment more.

I’m exhausted, so _of course_ Simon Snow chooses now to walk in the door.

He sees me standing in the corner of the office and starts blinking.

“Welcome back,” says Ms. Possibelf warmly. (My brain keeps wanting to call her “Dr.”; she has a masters and decades of frankly impressive experience. That’s why I asked to shadow her specifically.) (Someday that’ll be me.)

“Hello,” says Simon. He seems to notice he’s practically blinking out SOS and stops, shaking his head lightly as if to clear it.

“Do you want me to leave?” I blurt out. Ms. Possibelf looks at me with surprise. “It’s just, we know each other from class.” Otherwise known as _hate each other_. I glance between the two. “If it would be awkward, I don’t need to shadow this appointment.”

“It’s fine,” says Simon, far too quickly. “Um, thanks, but it’s chill. I want you to get your hours and stuff.” Ms. Possibelf nods at me as well.

“Right. Well, thanks.” I feel even more stupid, but it’s fine. Everything is fine. I don’t even have to talk to the guy, for heaven’s sake. I literally cannot screw this up.

Oblivious to my internal dilemma, Ms, Possibelf proceeds with the appointment. Apparently Simon’s been coming in for a while related to stuttering and articulation challenges. He’s nearly finished treatment plan, but they do some practicing. Voiceless bilabial stop – “p” words. They move through words with similar characteristics – voiced bilabial stops, voiced and unvoiced alveolar stops, and even velar stops. Simon sounds confident; I wonder which phoneme bothered him the most when he started coming here. I’ve noticed him stutter sometimes in class, but not enough that I assumed he’d be in speech therapy.

After they finish with sentence drills, Simon clears his throat. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course.”

“Will my accent be fixed soon?”

Ms. Possibelf seems taken aback. “Well… it’s not a matter of ‘fixing’. You’ve made great progress with your stuttering, and I hope you feel proud of it. Like we spoke about, you’ve been practicing clear articulation and reliable implosive consonants, which you can draw on in times of stress.” She fidgets with a pen. “We haven’t talked about accents. There are many ways to speak English, and they are perfectly valid.”

Simon’s brow creases. “My guardian says I have to speak Standard English. Like, the Queen’s English. I’m supposed to take over his business, but apparently his clients are,” he chooses his words carefully, “rather particular. If I keep speaking like this, they’d think I was ‘a dirty…’.” He mumbles the last part. His head drops in shame and I imagine punching whoever would tell him such a thing.

Ms. Possibelf frowns and smooths her robe. “I’m sorry to hear that, Simon. As I said, our practice affirms all kinds of Englishes, which are sometimes called dialects.” She pauses a moment. “We won’t ‘fix’ you, but we can add accent reduction to our list of goals. Sometimes I do work with actors and other public figures on this kind of voice coaching. Would you like that?”

Simon nods eagerly and I feel a strange sinking sensation. The rest of the appointment passes uneventfully. The staff nod at me and I feel a little thrill of gratefulness that I get to come back tomorrow. However, that last conversation sticks in my mind.

I set off towards home and walk into the Wavering Wood, as I always do. (Dreadfully ominous name, if you ask me.)

Someone else is here today – I see a silhouette in the distance. A seated figure. It’s not even that dark yet, but the back of my neck tingles. Curse whoever thought of naming this place like it’s a haven for predators. Surely I wouldn’t be nervous if this were Thames Park or, lord forbid, Pleasantville.

Branches crunch beneath my feet.

The intrusion is both better and worse than I expected. The tree stump-cum-chair comes into better view at the same time as Simon Snow’s glorious curls.

I’m stunned into momentary silence (stupid) so he speaks first.

“What’re you doing there?” His lush Welsh accent is back in full force. It’s overlaid with suspicion.

“I live near here,” I say archly. “You’re the one blocking my commute.”

He shrugs. “Right, well, me too. I’ll walk with you, yeah? My place is near Mummer Street.” Great, so we’re neighbours.

“Whatever.”

We walk a minute before he breaks the silence. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a speech language pathologist. I always figured you for a researcher or criminal profiler or something, with the psychology.”

That’s where we met. We’ve been in a few courses together, but in “psychology of evil” he looked over so often I was sure he was going to jump up and say “it’s him! He’s the definition of evil!” (He’s not entirely wrong.)

“That’s my major,” I allow, “but I take courses in other fields – biology, linguistics, and the like. SLPs have broad requirements, and that’s been my goal for a while.” A well-placed eyebrow silences his skepticism. “Despite popular belief, my success is linked to an appreciation of learning, and I like it better when my learning could help people.”

He gapes at me. Do I seem like that much of a bastard?

“Is that so hard to believe?” I add, a touch too hotly. “Looking down from your perch as Davy Mage’s chosen boy? CEO-in-training? Frankly, I’m shocked he lets you take any electives at all.”

“I don’t want to do it,” mumbles Simon as we walk.

“What?”

“I said… I don’t know. That’s Mage’s goal, not mine.” He fidgets with his jacket pocket. “I didn’t want to study business, and I’m kind of shit at it. But people are counting on me to help them. Supporting and someday running the company is how I’m meant to do it.”

“Please. That company’s so shady I can hardly see it on a summer’s day.”

He prickles right back up again. “N- no! We have very equitable hiring practices and good return on investment.”

I laugh, a bit bitterly. “All well and good, but what about the scandals and cutthroat politics?”

“You’re just salty because he took over your mother’s company.”

I don’t want to go there now, so I just shrug.

“Sorry,” he blurts out. “Guess I don’t know how to talk without arguing with you.”

“It’s fine.” _I have a slew of inconvenient feelings for you. What’s your excuse?_

“It’s just… all I want is for Mage to trust me. To earn his respect… but it feels like he wants me to be someone else. Someone more serene, more cutthroat, more fucking posh and perfect.” He gestures emphatically. “Someone exactly like Agatha, but also the epitome of a ‘real man’.” Bitter sarcasm infuses this last part.

My eyebrow raises. “Is anyone all those things at once?”

“Fuck if I know.” He’s shaking a little, and I don’t know if I’m more worried he’ll explode or break down and cry. We slow our pace.

“Simon… it’s fine. You’re doing your best. I’m sure the Mage cares a lot about you.” Mage’s his guardian, for fuck’s sake… even if his progeny’s still on last-name basis with him. Weird.

Reassuring Simon feels both natural and exceedingly bizarre.

“I guess.” He sniffles. “Listen, is Ms. Possibelf for real about all that ‘different ways of speaking are okay’ stuff? Mage hates my accent… I didn’t even mention half of the shit he says.”

His words sink into me.

“Of course she is. I’m appalled anyone’s saying that to you, let alone your guardian.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve said much worse.”

I narrow mine right back. “Not about topics like that. Things one can’t easily change, things that make us unique.” Like my own scandalous past. “I rib you about the _content_ of your words, sure, and there’s plenty there to keep me occupied. Or your behaviours, like the time you brought a candle to class, spaced out, and nearly caught me on fire. _Seriously_ , Snow? This isn’t chemistry. No one expects to be incinerated in Psych 101.”

Snow snorts with the memory. Some of the tension eases away. “I guess you’re right. But if you get to call me out for dumb shit, I get to help you be less of a pretentious asshole.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Trust me, you already do.”

After a pause, we both dissolve into giggles. (It’s undignified, but what can you do.)

“Frankly, Snow – and don’t you dare quote me on this – I like your accent. Do what you want, but I find it melodious.”

He looks as surprised as I feel. “At first I thought you were coming out here to mug me or something, skulking through the shadows like that. I never figured you’d lure me out here to _compliment_ me.”

To cut my losses, I play it up a bit. “Your prosody is exquisite. Your palatal glide holds enough power to _y_ eet me into the sun. Your tapped palatal liquid is poetic, and _someday_ I wish that you could interrupt my labiodental fricative with a jubilant mid back vowel.” Merlin, cut me off soon or I will cease making sense entirely.

He’s realized that I’m taking the piss, at least a little, but not actually making fun of him. He laughs again.

“You’re more fun than I realized, Baz.” We make it out of the Woods.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” _And oh, how badly I want you._ Psych class is not the place to meet people, but fate has never listened to me.

We’ve reached the point where our paths diverge.

“Hey, wanna study together sometime? I’m pants at biology, but, I mean, we’re both in developmental psych.”

I reply straight-faced before turning. “Message me – I’ll bring the sour cherry scones.” _Don’t think I haven’t noticed your addiction._

His face breaks into a beautiful sunny grin, and I’ve never been so optimistic about studying.


End file.
